The child saith nothing but what he heard at the fireside.
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The Happy Child
I saw this day sweet flowers grow thick --
But not one like the child did pick.
I heard the packhounds in green park --
But no dog like the child heard bark.
I heard this day bird after bird --
But not one like the child has heard.
A hundred butterflies saw I --
But not one like the child saw fly.
I saw the horses roll in grass --
But no horse like the child saw pass.
My world this day has lovely been --
But not like what the child has seen.
poem by William Henry Davies
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Though some Saith that Youth Ruleth me
1 Though some saith that youth ruleth me,
2 I trust in age to tarry.
3 God and my right and my duty,
4 From them I shall never vary,
5 Though some say that youth ruleth me.
6 I pray you all that aged be,
7 How well did ye your youth carry?
8 I think some worse, of each degree:
9 Therein a wager lay dare I,
10 Though some saith that youth ruleth me.
11 Pastimes of youth sometime among,
12 None can say but necessary.
13 I hurt no man, I do no wrong,
14 I love true where I did marry,
15 Though some saith that youth ruleth me.
16 Then soon discuss that hence we must.
17 Pray we to God and Saint Mary
18 That all amend, and here an end,
19 Thus saith the king, the eighth Harry,
20 Though some saith that youth ruleth me.
poem by Henry VIII King of England
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On Anne Allen
The wind blew keenly from the Western sea,
And drove the dead leaves slanting from the tree--
Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith--
Heaping them up before her Father's door
When I saw her whom I shall see no more--
We cannot bribe thee, Death.
She went abroad the falling leaves among,
She saw the merry season fade, and sung--
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith--
Freely she wandered in the leafless wood,
And said that all was fresh, and fair, and good--
She knew thee not, O Death.
She bound her shining hair across her brow,
She went into the garden fading now;
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith--
And if one sighed to think that it was sere,
She smiled to think that it would bloom next year!
She feared thee not, O Death.
Blooming she came back to the cheerful room
With all the fairer flowers yet in bloom--
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith--
A fragrant knot for each of us she tied,
And placed the fairest at her Father's side--
She cannot charm thee, Death.
Her pleasant smile spread sunshine upon all;
We heard her sweet clear laughter in the Hall--
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith--
We heard her sometimes after evening prayer,
As she went singing softly up the stair--
No voice can charm thee, Death.
Where is the pleasant smile, the laughter kind,
That made sweet music of the winter wind?
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith--
Idly they gaze upon her empty place,
Her kiss hath faded from her Father's face--
She is with thee, O Death.
poem by Edward Fitzgerald
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What the child hears at the fireside is soon known at the parish church.
Words
Sticks and stones may break your bones,
but words will never hurt you.
Stupid, lazy, burden, cripple and helpless.
These are just a few of the words I
heard a mother say to a child.
And now, she sits there wondering
why her 35 year old child is not as out
going as I, and why her child seems afraid to even
try.
Well, the reason is as simple as words.
Great, smart, good, able and excellent.
These are the words I heard when I was child.
Yeah, sticks and stone do hurt you,
but so can words.
Behold, the fool saith, Put not all thine eggs in the one basket, -- which is but a manner of saying, Scatter your money and your attention, but the wise man saith, Put all your eggs in the one basket and -- watch that basket.
quote by Mark Twain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Full Speed Ahead
Full speed ahead my child
God is right by your side
Full speed ahead my child
Hate will not come close to
Where love abides
Full speed ahead my child
No turning back
You've got nothing to hide
And He is on your side
Full speed ahead my son
You've changed the course of history
Something never thought could be done
Go forth in peace my child
Let not pride in your heart abide
Stand firm in your beliefs
As others watch in disbelief
Now full speed ahead my child
Do your job with pride
Thus saith the Lord!
For he has spoken
And his words can never be broken
As you go full speed ahead
Tarry for the living and not for the dead
Don't forget to keep the Lord in view
No matter what valley you might be travelling through
Go forth in peace my child
Full speed ahead
You are Barack Obama
Born to lead
No longer will you be judged by your color or creed
So full speed ahead
Never look back
God is taking you on a journey
He has got your back!
poem by Mitzie Thorne
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The Golden Mile-Stone. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)
Leafless are the trees; their purple branches
Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral,
Rising silent
In the Red Sea of the winter sunset.
From the hundred chimneys of the village,
Like the Afreet in the Arabian story,
Smoky columns
Tower aloft into the air of amber.
At the window winks the flickering fire-light;
Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer,
Social watch-fires
Answering one another through the darkness.
On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing,
And like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree
For its freedom
Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them.
By the fireside there are old men seated,
Seeing ruined cities in the ashes,
Asking sadly
Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them.
By the fireside there are youthful dreamers,
Building castles fair, with stately stairways,
Asking blindly
Of the Future what it cannot give them.
By the fireside tragedies are acted
In whose scenes appear two actors only,
Wife and husband,
And above them God the sole spectator.
By the fireside there are peace and comfort,
Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful faces,
Waiting, watching
For a well-known footstep in the passage.
Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile-Stone;
Is the central point, from which he measures
Every distance
Through the gateways of the world around him.
In his farthest wanderings still he sees it;
Hears the talking flame, the answering night-wind,
As he heard them
When he sat with those who were, but are not.
Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion,
Nor the march of the encroaching city,
Drives an exile
From the hearth of his ancestral homestead.
We may build more splendid habitations,
Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures,
But we cannot
Buy with gold the old associations!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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An Old Christmas Song
I heard an old old Christmas song
sung by grandma on Christmas eve.
I heard an old old Christmas song
of a virgin who did conceive.
I heard an old old Christmas song
of a Christ child who will relieve.
I heard an old old Christmas song
of glad tidings we shall receive.
I heard an old old Christmas song
of peace on earth we shall achieve.
I heard an old old Christmas song
of joyful people who did grieve.
I heard an old old Christmas song
of pain eternal we shall leave.
poem by Joseph C Ogbonna (15 December 2019)
Submitted by Joseph C Ogbonna
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A Ballad Of The Town Water
It is the Police Commissioners,
All on a winter's day;
And they to prove the town water
Have set themselves away.
They went to the north, they went to the south,
And into the west went they,
Till they found a civil, civil engineer,
And unto him did say:
'Now tell to us, thou civil engineer,
If this be fit to drink.'
And they showed him a cup of the town water,
Which was as black as ink.
He took three sips of the town water,
And black in the face was he;
And they turned them back and fled away,
Amazed that this should be.
And he has written a broad letter
And sealed it with a ring,
And the letter saith that the town water
Is not a goodly thing.
And they have met, and the Bailies all,
And eke the Councillors,
And they have ta'en the broad letter
And read it within the doors.
And there has fallen a great quarrel,
And a striving within the doors,
And quarrelsome words have the Bailies said,
And eke the Councillors.
And one saith, 'We will have other water,'
And another saith, 'But nay;'
And none may tell what the end shall be,
Alack and well-a-day!
I love the inoffensive frog,
'A little child, a limber elf,'
With health and spirits all agog,
He does the long jump in a bog
Or teaches men to swim and dive.
If he should be cut up alive,
Should I not be cut up myself?
So I intend to be straightway
An Anti-Vivisectionist;
I'll read Miss Cobbe five hours a day
And watch the little frogs at play,
With no desire to see their hearts
At work, or other inward parts,
If other inward parts exist.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Child Of Babylon
(coverdale/marsden)
When I heard the sound of thunder
On the day that I was born,
I was blinded by the lighting
An baptised in the storm
My father started crying
When he saw what he had done,
But, my mother started praying
Have mercy on my son,
He is a child of babylon
I am a child of babylon,
Lord have mercy on a wayward son
Nowhere to hide, nowhere to run
I am a child,
A child of babylon
When Ive fooled around so many times
When Ive known it aint been right,
But, I paint it all in colours
When it really should be black and white
I sail my ship through muddy waters,
Try to open every door,
When I saw the seven wonders
It left me wanting more
I am a child of babylon,
Lord have mercy on a wayward son
Nowhere to hide, got no place to run
I am a child,
A child of babylon
On my day of judgement
I know how it will be,
Im prepared to meet my maker
With no hope for charity
Ill stand alone and pay the price
For everything Ive done,
cos there aint guardian angel
For a child of babylon
I am a child,
A child of babylon
I am a child of babylon,
Lord have mercy on a wayward son
Nowhere to hide, got no place to run
I am a child,
A child of babylon
Child of babylon
song performed by by Whitesnake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Old Child
Child. Old child,
No longer wild;
No longer speaking,
No longer beguiled;
I have become
A quiet old child.
Child. Old child,
No longer cold;
Never an old man,
Always too old;
I have become
An old child tenfold.
Child. Old child,
Forever a child;
Always rethinking,
Always exiled.
I should become
A happy old child.
Child. Old child.
Always soft-spoken;
No longer breaking,
Still being broken;
I have become
An old child, unspoken.
Child. Old child,
No longer bold;
By thinking, rethinking
Of stories untold,
All through my childhood,
I've become... old.
poem by Mihai Cosmescu
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A child's Suffering
The intense flame of withering blooms,
In deep essence of those in tombs.
A child like figure in darkness's shadow,
As his eyes as yellow as cat's eyes glow.
Death takes him home into the deep,
to a never ending painful sleep.
The child's voice heard through my dreams,
His voice so painful as he screams.
Why an innocent child has to suffer,
no child deserves this life so hard and so much rougher.
But the father's disgrace chose the child's path,
Taking the child into a blood bath,
the child cries as the burning goes on,
Forever from dusk to dawn.
poem by Krystle Kyriakou
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Children Reflect Those Ideals Projected
Children,
Reflect those ideals projected.
With a caring less,
Of how their wants and needs are met.
And a child caring less,
Of how their innocent desires are met...
Will do his or her best,
To express no regret...
In the showing just how much they are upset.
With a display of embarrassing tantrums,
A parent tries hard to minimize and suppress.
A 'child' grows up to expect,
That a loud voice heard in protest...
Will get as demanded,
What is wished with no exception.
A child never forgets,
Who promised what and when...
The day and hour,
That promise was mentioned.
Regardless of the dust that may collect in pockets.
Or the emptiness in each corner of a treasure chest.
A child,
Raised to be a 'child' teased by success...
Will never be satisfied by just a taste of it.
Since to sacrifice is not,
A conditional part of a child's mindset.
A CHILD,
No matter how old that child gets...
Will demand what is wanted,
Caring less who pays for it.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Wind Child
The Wind has a voice,
A sad, sweet voice
I've heard it sing
Long and beautiful
Like Wind should be,
Carrying forever
The singing Wind is rarely heard
It's quiet and soft and
Unnoticeable
I am a Wind Child
I hear the Wind as
She sings her sad, sweet song
I am a Wind Child
And I sing with the Wind
Wind Children are rare as
True Hope
Special as Love
Wind Child
Is me
poem by Sahar Alive
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Who Will Cry?
Who will cry for the little child who goes for days without food?
Who will cry for the little child who parents beat them?
Who will cry for the little child who is mistreated for being different?
Who will cry for the little child who goes unloved?
Who will cry for the little child whose stomach is swelled up?
Who will cry for the little child who doesn't have clothes to wear?
Who will cry for the little child who is shunned for not being popular?
Who will cry for the little child who is molested every night?
Who will cry for the little child who's parents are not around?
Who will cry for the little child who has to take care of his self?
Who will cry?
Will you cry?
Cause I have.
poem by Natasha Ligons
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Give This Child What She Needs
Give this child what she needs
Love
Give this child what she needs
Shelter
Give this child what she needs
Prayers
Give this child what she needs
Some food and water
Give this child what she needs
Good parents
Give this child what she needs
Good manors
Give this child what she needs
A smoke free home
Give this child what she needs
Peace and happiness
Give this child what she needs
To know God
Give this child what she needs
Your guidance
Give this child what she needs
Clothes
Give this child what she needs
Your support
Give this child what she needs
Some family time
Give this child what she needs
A nice bath every day
Give this child what she needs
Some discipline
Give this child what she needs
A warm bed to sleep on
poem by Aldo Kraas
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To Alison Cunningham, From Her Boy
For the long nights you lay awake
And watched for my unworthy sake:
For your most comfortable hand
That led me through the uneven land:
For all the story-books you read:
For all the pains you comforted:
For all you pitied, all you bore,
In sad and happy days of yore:-
My second Mother, my first Wife,
The angel of my infant life-
From the sick child, now well and old,
Take, nurse, the little book you hold!
And grant it, Heaven, that all who read
May find as dear a nurse at need,
And every child who lists my rhyme,
In the bright, fireside, nursery clime,
May hear it in as kind a voice
As made my childish days rejoice!
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Yesterdays Gone
I heard she loved you, I heard she cared,
I heard she miscarried and you were scared.
Did you run from the one,
Who conceived your child?
Yesterdays gone theres no return,
And she cries all night.
Did you run from the one
Who conceived your child?
Yesterdays done theres no return,
And she cries all night.
Solo.
I believe that a woman can be a slave to a man.
I believe that love that you gave and we try it again.
Will you return to the one,
Who conceived your child?
Yesterdays gone theres no return,
And she cries all night.
Will you return to the one,
Who conceived your child?
Yesterdays done theres no return,
And she cries all night.
Did you run from the one,
Who conceived your child?
Yesterdays gone theres no return,
And she cries all night.
song performed by by Cranberries
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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